Faithful are the Wounds
by pratz
Summary: "But despite it all, you've seen her at her most delicate. You've seen her sans the walls and the masks. You've seen the real her, and it's a big accomplishment you can't let go." A take on Rachel's thought about Quinn's recovery post On My Way. ::On Hiatus::
1. What Did Tagore Say?

**Faithful are the Wounds**

Author: pratz

Summary: The road to recovery was a long journey, but Rachel was there to hold Quinn's hand.

Disclaimer: RIB's.

Note: Because a car accident, a direct hit nevertheless, is never trivial. Because Glee takes recovery too lightly for its own good. And, most of all, because Rachel and Quinn deserve this.

Sub-note: Kind of a prequel to _Daughters_. And writing in Rachel's perspective. Is. Difficult. And I don't have a beta. And I've already planned how this story will go, but I like taking things slow. I'd love to hear from you and hear I didn't mess this up.

-.-.-.-

'_Faithful are the wounds of a friend.' _(Proverbs 27:6)

-.-.-.-

Contrary to popular belief, Rachel never came to the hospital.

Most Glee club members frowned at her, but they did not say anything about or against it. They knew to hold his silence. Even Finn did. Even Mr Schuester, though with clear disappointment in his eyes, offered her his sympathy as far as his understanding could reach. Surprisingly, Puck had been the one hell bent on bringing her to the hospital, but Santana—_Santana_ of all people—had equally surprisingly been the one who had stopped him, saying that it was not the time.

Rachel wondered about the might of time.

She wondered if Finn and she had more than five minute slot so she did not have to rush Quinn. If she did not text Quinn, though knowing that she was driving and on her way—damn those words to hell and beyond. If she listened to Santana when the Latina said that Quinn was not coming, and if she would just accept it instead of continuing to text her missing bridesmaid. If she really saw how vehemently disapproving Quinn and Kurt had been of her rushing into a marriage at eighteen. If she really paid heed to Quinn's concern—because, for God's sake, it was not something that a somewhat foe-turned- friend did every day—about her ruining her life on that day in the bridal shop.

And most of all, she wondered if Quinn had one more second to see the oncoming truck and swerve and avoid the crash and come to see her and just _not_ be in the hospital.

"Rachel dear?"

She almost got herself a whiplash from turning too fast. Hiram was standing at her door, looking surprised himself by her reaction.

"Sorry," he flashed a smile apologetically. "I just want to let you know we're going."

She stiffened when she knew she should not be. Hiram had told him days before about his plan. While the Berrys were not always in a good term with the Fabrays, they were neighbors. Leroy even went to the same school with the patriarch, Russel Fabray, and redecorated the family's house for Judy Fabray after her divorce. Of course they went to see the Fabrays' youngest daughter when she was hospitalized. Indeed, this would be their third time in just two weeks.

"Baby?" Hiram asked. "Are you sure you don't—"

"I'm not going, Dad," she cut quickly in glum distress. "I can't—I'm not—" Just that, and Hiram's arms around her were like a safe cocoon inside which a butterfly was struggling to develop its fragile wings.

"I know, baby," Hiram whispered onto her hair, and she wanted to cry at the understanding in her father's voice. "I know. It's okay."

"No, it's not," she mumbled against his suit. "I'm not." _And Quinn isn't, too._ _And I can't face her now because I'm too much of a coward and I know I don't have the guts to see her and I don't want her to see me like this_, she added mentally.

As Hiram's arms tightened around her, a gentle throat clearing interrupted them, and Rachel found Leroy's solemn expression behind Hiram's back.

Leroy raised a paper bag full of three hardcopy books. "We've got this. You sure it's all?"

"Yes," she said. "I know she's awake and though I've never been hospitalized, I won't say hospital stay is a pleasant experience. So, yes—hence the books. I hope they help." She winced at her own words. "I'm not sure whether I get her preference right, but I know she enjoys books and I hope—"

"Oh she does," Hiram was the one interrupting this time. "The last time we visited her, there's a pile of books on the bedside. The ones that you picked included." He smiled reassuringly. "You get it right, baby."

She damn wished she did.

"So," Leroy said, looking at her in the way she just knew that he wanted her to change her mind, sighing when his wish wasn't granted, "anything you want to say to Quinn?"

_Tell her I'm so sorry and I'll do everything to make it up to her and I want her to forgive me and I miss her_, she wanted to say, but what she let out was, "Just don't tell her that the books are from me."

"Rachel," Leroy began.

"No, Daddy. Not now." She hated disappointing her fathers, but she could not help being relieved as it was settled with a subdued sigh from both Leroy and Hiram.

As they left, Rachel wondered what her fathers would say if she told them she wanted them to let her know if Quinn's face lit up as she saw them.

And how it would fall as she noticed there were only two Berrys instead of three.

She somehow wished it.

-.-.-.-

Her fathers returned from the hospital right after she finished preparing dinner. They did not talk much about Quinn as they ate, but once or twice Rachel caught the way Leroy's frown dug itself deeper in the crease between her eyebrows as he tried to catch her eye. She managed to avoid it, though, and excused herself earlier, saying she had two quizzes tomorrow. She did not really have to study for quizzes she had long prepared for, but she needed to do something—_anything_—to hold herself back from asking her fathers about Quinn.

Two hours into her futile attempt of studying, Leroy knocked at her door, signaling her of the moment of doom she had been impeding since the afternoon.

"Do you have a moment?" Leroy said. "This won't take long."

Sitting up, she scooted over on the bed to give him space. The bed suddenly felt cramped even though it was just the two of them, Leroy's sock-clad feet bumping onto her bare ones. Staring at her wriggling toes, she vaguely recalled Puck said something about Quinn's legs, about details she neither wanted to hear nor remember, and all so sudden she felt sick. So sick.

Noticing the sudden tense in her posture, Leroy looped an arm across her shoulder, rubbing her arm softly like he always did when she had nightmares about her scary, drill sergeant-like mathematics teacher in the fifth grade. She had tried to ignore the dreams, but it had been to no avail. Leroy might be the stricter, rule enforcer father, but he was also the one whose assurance had always mattered the most to Rachel. Thus he was the one Rachel turned to after nights of having the same nightmare.

_Ignoring it won't make it disappear, baby girl_. _Just because you can't see it, it doesn't mean it's not there._ Leroy had said back then. _Face it. You're bigger than your fear._

Leroy handed her a worn out, dog-eared book, placing it on her lap. "From Quinn," he said. "She said she wanted you to have it back."

She frowned at the book, a copy of Rabindranath Tagore's _Stray Bird_. She did not remember picking the book for Quinn, but her mind might have deluded her when she was selecting books from the library. She remembered picking some titles, but not _Stray Bird_, because, well, she did not even know if Quinn read poetry.

_Then again, I don't know much about her_, she thought.

"We talked," Leroy said, as if noticing her confusion. "Quinn doesn't strike me as an avid reader, but apparently we really can't judge a book by its cover, can we? She said it's a good book, and she thanked you for that." At Rachel's more confused expression, Leroy simply opened a page.

There was a highlighted line on that page, the color neon bright unlike the dimness of her bedroom. There was also an evidence of practiced art of marginalia—Quinn's neat writing on the left of the line, and Rachel could just imagine Quinn's determination as she highlighted and scrabbled down her notes. Her hand shook as she clutched at the book as if it was a life saver, as if it would make everything alright again, as if it would bring Quinn back to school, to Glee club, to them, to _her_.

The line stung her eyes, and she wanted to believe in it.

'_When I stand before thee at the day's end, thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing.'_

-.-.-.-


	2. This is Ferdinand Porsche's Wreckage

**Faithful are the Wounds**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's

Notes: I was out in areas without the internet, so I've just watched the last three episodes of _Glee_ in a rushed marathon. While I'm glad that all is right again with the world that Quinn is dancing and that makes all is right with the world, her recovery is one hell of messed up logic. No, seriously. Oh, and I'm a slow writer, and to write this, I must rewatch _Glee_ from the beginning to confirm things. If you're still here reading this story, you deserve the best chocolate cookies in the world.

P.S.: I'll be forever thankful for a beta reader, God, please.

-.-.-.-

**Chapter Two**

An inch.

The door handle was only an inch from the tip of her fingers, the metal piece shiny and inviting, but she could not find it in herself to reach and just open the door—the damn door that would lead to the wrecked New Beetle's driver seat in all its messed glory.

_Ironically, it was_, she thought, justifying her use of the word. Glory was surviving a direct hit—from a truck nevertheless. Glory was surviving a car crash that left two thousand and seven hundred pounds of metal and leather in a complete wreck in a junkyard. Glory was surviving a real life horror that left the driver's door hollowed in a dent into the interior, the seat thrown off its hinge, and the whole dashboard splattered with shards of tempered glass and blood.

Most importantly, glory was surviving all the split second of an accident while somehow remaining conscious all the time.

The nauseous wave hit Rachel at the horrific image of Quinn somehow being aware of what happened to her that day like a Muhammad Ali punch to the stomach, twisting her insides in a tight clench that made her throw up.

Beside her, Kurt scooted away with a loud shriek that was more of surprise than disgust. He intuitively held her hair away from her face, his other hand rubbing her back softly. "I told you this isn't a good idea," he said sympathetically. "You okay?"

She shook her head. Of course she was not, but she was the one who insisted to come to see Quinn's car—or, more accurately, the remnant of what used to be Quinn's car. Heaving a dry breath, she pulled her handkerchief from the pocket of her dress to wipe her lips. _One step at a time, Rachel_, she reminded herself. _You can only take all of this one step at a time_.

Still, her voice shook when she said, "Let's go back to the hospital."

Kurt sighed.

-.-.-.-

Despite her seemingly tame understanding when Rachel had been too much of a coward to visit Quinn, Santana's glare directed at her could have stabbed, killed, and mutilated her into pieces. Really, nobody could ignore the simmering anger beneath Santana's façade, and Rachel could not help flinching at the heat even though Santana looked collected.

"Well?" Santana donned her infamous hands-on-hips stance, a HBIC patented pose that hit Rachel with a pang more only because it reminded her of Quinn.

"I've seen it," Rachel said. "The car, I mean."

"And?"

She swallowed. "I'm here."

Santana took two steps forward, invading her space. "Two weeks, Berry. _Two goddamn weeks_ and you suddenly came to me and demanded to know about, let me quote, the extent of Quinn's injury so you could prepare yourself better when you visited her in the hospital." Santana poked at her left shoulder—hard. "I don't give a damn if you didn't care enough to drop by before, but you apparently have the guts to think it's _you_ who shoulder the heaviest burden, and all of this is just to clear your conscience off your guilt."

"I don't—"

"Shut it." Santana poked at her shoulder again, purposefully harder this time it made Rachel wince.

But she knew, too, that she deserved it. Even before she braced the storm that was Santana Lopez about an hour ago, she knew.

She had pulled Santana aside in the hospital, purposely catching her since she knew Santana would be there. After all, it was her first step to face her demon—literally.

And the demon told her _everything_.

Rachel had never expected to hear a list of injuries flow from Santana's mouth so smoothly she would have thought that Santana was merely listing the names of the glee club members. It started with an intracranial injury that led to doctors' working their asses off for three hours nonstop to find two—_two!_—bleeders beneath a cerebral contusion on the upper left side of Quinn's head. Coming next was cervical radiculopathy, a serious injury to the neck since the head was jostled, followed by a thoracic spine injury and a lumbar radiculopathy—_pinched nerves_, Santana simplified. A punctured left lung came next, and Rachel's mind was tortured by the image of Quinn's body unable to provide oxygen for itself as her lung kept undoing her effort to inhale. Last but not less horrible, Santana finished the list with a temporomandibular joint disorder, torn muscles, and multiple cuts and bruises.

For the first time in her life, Rachel was glad that her extensive vocabulary was not quite expanded to cover medical terms.

Santana had told her, exactly five minute before That Dreadful Call that Changed Everything, that Quinn was not coming to her wedding. Now, with her mind swarmed with the realization of Quinn's injuries and a white hospital door that simply stood between her and Quinn, Rachel wished that Quinn really had not decided to come that day.

'_Do me a favor, Berry,'_ Santana had said, _'and go see what's left of her car.'_ Her tone was unsympathetic, but there was no bite behind it. _'And come back here when you're ready.'_

'_But I am.'_

'_For yourself, yeah._' Santana had glared. _'Come back here when you're ready for Quinn.'_

_Am I?_

_You are,_ she answered for herself. _You _are_, Rachel._

"You sure are the most obnoxious person I kn—" Santana trailed off, eyes widening as she looked past Rachel's shoulder.

She turned around to find a hulking man with, for the love of all that was drama, _certain_ green eyes and high cheekbones.

The man approached them in a series of imposing gaits, and Rachel suddenly could pick up actual livid waves emanating from Santana.

The Latina recovered fast from her temporary shock and with a hand effectively stopped the man even before he could come closer to Quinn's room. "You're not welcome here," she spat at the man.

"Santana," the man acknowledged with a stiff nod.

"You have no rights to be here."

"I have every right. I'm family."

Rachel's eyes widened in sick realization.

Santana somehow put herself between the man and Rachel—and the door. "I don't want to make a scene because that's the last thing needed here, but you know my father works here and it's a _doctor order_ to keep any possible disturbance away. You have five seconds to leave before I'm calling security. One. Two."

"I just need to talk to Judy."

"Three."

"Fine." The man raised a hand in a mock surrender, finally giving up his forced politeness. "I'll see Judy at home, then." And Russell Fabray had never been more detestable as he turned his nose at Santana, at Rachel, and at the door.

An inch, Rachel realized. She was merely an inch away from slapping Russell Fabray.

That, and there was another inch between her and Quinn's door.

-.-.-.-

Quinn was lying on her side when they entered the room, halfway dozing off with her right hand folded under her head. Yet at the sound of people entering her room, she snapped awake with a wince as the sudden movement pulled at her muscles. Rachel saw the way Quinn's eyes brightened as she caught Santana's figure, but she could not help the lurch in her stomach when Santana stepped aside and Quinn's eyes met hers.

"You have a visitor," Santana said, half dragging Rachel to stand close to the side of Quinn's bed.

Quinn simply nodded, and Rachel could not help comparing it to Russell Fabray's earlier gesture—and it made her sicker.

When Rachel decided on the lamest greeting known to humankind in the form of a timid 'Hi, Quinn,' Santana rolled her eyes and growled out loud. "I'll go grab some coffee. You two'd better not kill each other because if you do, I swear I'll kill you for the second time myself for this headache."

Then silence.

_Two weeks and what now, Rachel?_ she asked herself. _Say something!_

Quinn did not appear to want to start the conversation, but her appearance spoke clearly enough for herself. The thin hospital gown could only hide so much, after all. Rachel could see crisscrossed scars down Quinn's left elbow to her wrist. There were two stitches above Quinn's left eyebrow and a few small cuts across her jaw, and Rachel swallowed the nauseous bile once again.

"So, Quinn," she began, "h-how are you?"

"Drowsy," Quinn said. "Just had another surgery, that is."

"Another?"

Quinn shrugged. "The docs said it's to relieve the pressure on the fifth column of my spine."

Rachel did not realize that her hands were shaking until she fisted them tightly.

"Speaking of which," Quinn tilted her head at the books on her night table, "thanks for them."

She wanted to say that it was nothing, that the books piling up beside Quinn's bed were nothing compared to what Quinn had to endure, that no, she did not deserve Quinn's thanking her. And at that moment, there was nothing that she wants more than tattooing her shaking hands with a permanent reminder of her cowardliness: a single line of a poem she once read that said _mortemortemortemortemor_.

But she could not say anything—not when Quinn was lying on her side because her back was obviously too sore to be lied upon because she had just another surgery because she was involved in an accident that made a team of surgeons cut her open repeatedly because she had said she would come to a wedding that she did not even approve.

Yet Quinn could still think of giving Rachel a copy of Tagore's book with that line about wounds and healing.

That was it.

The sickening rolls inside her could not be contained anymore, so she bolted. If her infamous storming out of glee club practices were a dramatic trademark, this was a desperate flight of the bumblebee where she was no longer a butterfly which was building her wings inside Leroy's cocoon arms.

"I-I'm sorry—I should go—my fathers—"

"Wha—"

"I-I'll come again tomorrow." That was so uncharacteristic and uncalled for her, she knew.

Quinn tried to reach for her. "Wait! Rachel, don't—_ow_."

Quinn's loud gasp made Rachel turn around, finding Quinn scrunch her eyes close tightly, face contorted in pain. Her uninjured hand, which was halfway reaching out to stop Rachel's panic escape, froze in midair, and she fell back against the bed with a thump.

Shocked, Rachel rushed to Quinn's side, frantically grabbing Quinn's hand, already having a horrible assumption of what was going on.

"Can't—" Quinn gasped for air, and Rachel's heart twisted from all the pain displayed on Quinn's face. "Call—nurse—"

She immediately reached around Quinn to punch the emergency call button near the headboard, hitting it more than it required to, and that was the moment when her eyes caught the stain on the back of Quinn's thin hospital gown.

"Oh my God," she whispered in terror.

She would never, ever be able to forget the red stain that burnt her eyes for the rest of her life.

Santana returned just as a nurse and an intern ran into the room. Unsurprisingly, her first reaction was to forgo the tall tumbler of coffee she had and bellowed, "What the hell is going on, Berry?"

The intern pushed herself between Santana and Rachel. "I need you two to wait outside," she said before Rachel could answer Santana.

"Is she al—she's going to be okay, right?" Santana whipped around to glare at Rachel. "I left you only for ten minutes and this happens? Why can't you do something right for once, hobbit?"

"Please wait outside, Miss Lopez!" the intern said louder, obviously knowing who Santana was.

Santana's words should have stung worse and she should have felt the rough grip Santana had on her arm as the Latina cursed and dragged her out—she seemed to be doing that a lot today, but the only thing in her mind was a constant prayer of _Quinnpleasebealright_.

-.-.-.-

Two mentally exhausting hours later, she was sitting next to Quinn's bed, holding Quinn's uninjured hand—the one not attached to the IV.

Behind her, Santana leaned against the wall with hands folded across her chest. Even with the distance, Rachel could still know Santana was still seething. An angry Santana was a raging bull; an infuriated Santana was a volcano waiting to erupt. That much she learned today.

'_She ripped her back open to make you stay,'_ Santana had said through gritted teeth when they had been waiting for Quinn's surgery. _'I swear if you even have the slightest idea to freaking run away again, I _will_ make your New York dream remain a dream.'_

Rachel held Quinn's hand more firmly. Quinn's hand was clammy and cold, and it weighed so lightly it distressed Rachel.

The last time she held Quinn's hand was when the glee club sang _Dog Days are Over_. It had been an action out of the spur of the moment. She had dragged Quinn to the edge of the stage to stand with the rest of the club, and the sensation at that time was so unlike this. Back then, Quinn had been happy—or at least as happy as she could appear to be, and her hand had been warm in Rachel's.

_When was the last time you pay attention to other people?_ she heard the mocking question in her mind. _When was the last time you looked at people who were _not_ Finn?_

Even Santana had been doing a better job than she did at that. The Latina had proven that her anger was a form of protectiveness even though she would never admit it out loud.

_You're an inch from seeing her bleed alive_, she told herself.

But she was also an inch away from seeing Quinn heal—just as Quinn promised. The way Quinn endured surgery after surgery confirmed it to her. If she could not believe in herself, she could believe in Quinn.

Because this was Quinn—the toughest, strongest, most inspiring person she had ever met.

"I'm staying, Santana," she said. "I am."

She did not need to turn around to see Santana nod in approval.

-.-.-.-

_Next chapter preview:_

_"Sean, this is Quinn Fabray. Quinn, meet Sean Fretthold."_


	3. Patton Has Arrived in Normandy

**Faithful are the Wounds**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's.

Note: Basically, I just want to address how canon!Quinn seems too lively for someone who's just experienced a series of the hardest hardships in life. On a different note, I still don't have a beta, and I'm still taking this fic slow. However, I've roughly drafted the next three chapters, so I hope I can update faster. Now, do let me know what you think, good readers.

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 3**

Hand-holding was a serious business, Rachel decided.

Take Quinn, for example. Holding Quinn's hand when she was sedated was one thing, Rachel realized, but holding her hand when she was awake was an entirely different subject.

"Yes?" Santana glared.

"I had rehearsals," she repeated. Lame, she knew it. Quinn had been released from the hospital for a week now, and today it was announced that she was going back to school. The glee club had prepared for a welcome party, and here she was: a captain who had been not-so good in practicing what she preached about the club being a family.

"Doesn't justify the fact that you've been chickening out—_again_," Santana spat. "So here's what you're going to do today, dwarf. You're going to be there in today's practice, you're going to take the front seat with your dopey-faced fiancé, and you're going to see Quinn when she's up and fully aware of her surroundings."

Rachel could not help squirming under the scrutiny of Santana's heated glare, but she held her tongue until Santana passed her with a scowl. Yet she did not even have a chance to exhale in relief when Finn appeared at the end of the corridor. Not exactly the person she wanted to see after a confrontation with Satan herself, that is.

He landed a quick peck against her lips, but she felt only the breeze of it, head still spinning from the force of truth of Santana's words. It was not until Finn mentioned the possibility of their future wedding that she snapped back to reality.

"I can't stop thinking about Quinn," she blurted out.

Finn looked taken aback, but she did not give him a chance to respond.

"She's—she's got in an accident when she's coming to our wedding, and—and—" Great, now she was stuttering. "I've practiced some apology speeches and I've considered making her cookies, but today she's coming back to school and I'm not sure if I can face her if she's—"

"—right behind you," Finn finished.

She whirled around to see the devil they were speaking of. _Though the title is better for me_, she corrected mentally.

The last time she had seen Quinn was about three days ago—Santana did not need to know that, though. She had snuck into the hospital, intending to just see how Quinn had progressed from her latest surgery. She stopped in front of Quinn's room, catching up soft voices of people talking inside. She recognized Santana's and an older feminine one's. Judy Fabray, she presumed. The blinds were not closed properly, so she could make out their figures. Quinn was sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to the window. A improvement, Rachel had initially thought and wanted to shout in joy, but the idea died quicker than she was able to open her mouth as Judy helped Quinn lift her hospital gown.

Long, crisscrossed surgery scars ran from the small of Quinn's back to the area between her shoulder blades and reached around her torso that Rachel could not see, marking Quinn forever for the accident she survived and the multiple injuries she recovered from. The skin wrinkled around the stitches, and some discolorations were still visible even though they had begun to fade.

She watched Judy lift Quinn's arms one by one to help her put on a sweater. She watched Santana look away as Quinn let out a soft 'ow' when her left arm was raised a bit too high for her comfort. She watched Quinn pull her hair free from the collar of her sweater and was about to turn to look at the window. And she, in lack of better words, chickened out—_again_—dramatically to the safe refugee of her bedroom and locked herself until Leroy came knocking to announce that dinner was ready.

So now she braced herself for a scolding... that never came.

Instead, Quinn's smile made her frozen on the spot, imaginary jaw on the floor.

Then Quinn talked about her almost being on the obituary page of their yearbook and God's grace and the day being the happiest day of her life, and Rachel's imaginary jaw dug its way deeper into the ground.

Quinn took her leave as Artie approached, saying that she was looking forward to seeing Rachel and Finn in the evening session.

Finn recovered first from the shock—she had to give him credit, really. "What was _that_?"

Wordless and bewildered, Rachel further dreaded the glee club's evening session.

Which looked _normal_, by the way.

_Really, Rachel?_ Her inner self snickered in disbelief. _Really?_

But it did. Everybody was there. Quinn sang a duet with Artie, and though the title of the song was ironic, it was an uplifting number. Everybody went to give Quinn a hug right after she finished her speech about her body's road to recovery; in addition, her promise to dance on the Nationals was so _Quinn_ _Fabray_ that even Rachel believed in it. Santana's hug lasted the longest, and her glare towards Rachel was less hostile than this morning. Then they all proceeded to end the session with a promise to stick together closer, stronger, for the better. It all looked normal.

Well, again, it _did_—until the invisible hands of reality dropped the bomb the following day.

Everybody immediately clamped shut as _'Quinn, I'm so sorry'_ escaped her mouth.

Quinn's smile froze for a brief moment, and Rachel died a little bit more inside.

She rambled on about how wrong it was to discuss the glee club's plan for their senior ditch day while Quinn was wheelchair-bound. Really, had everybody gone crazy and become the worst ignoramus the world had ever seen? Was it even logical to discuss possible outings when _not all of them_ could join? Was it not far from being sympathetic for even having this kind of discussion _just a day_ after Quinn's return?

The silence that followed was deafening. Finn's hands hovered above her shoulders, close to touching distance but that was all. Kurt looked uncomfortable in his seat for a reason Rachel did not know. Santana looked like she was anticipating for the next drone bomb. And she—she could not bear to look at Quinn even though she was only two feet away.

"Come here."

It was firm, accompanied by a sharp tilt of Quinn's head, but it rang all the more thunderously in Rachel's ears.

Quinn was looking at her in the eye. Waiting. Inviting her to come to her. Opening her arms as—_oh God_—she asked for a hug.

Still speechless, scared and horrified, her feet moved on autopilot. Standing in front of Quinn, she knew her friends were watching, holding their breaths. Her hands clenched and unclenched on her sides, giving away her anxiety.

All it took to make her dive in for a hug was that small lift at one of the corners of Quinn's mouth. Then Quinn, chuckling softly, said, "Come on." Quinn's smile was genuine, unlike her blinding ones back then in the corridor. Now this was the Quinn that she knew. This—this was—

And she broke.

The hug, relieving as it was, was short-lived as Quinn pulled back and started on another speech about how she did not want to be the reason the glee club did not undergo the ditch day tradition. Puck appraised her decision, and tension gave way to enthusiasm. _Now this _is_ normal_, Rachel thought.

Except that all the time Quinn did not let go of her hand.

-.-.-.-

_How do you explain laughter?_

Simple. It was a reaction to a series of stimuli such as jokes or tickles or other positive emotional states. The sound it produced bubbled from the diaphragm, rose to the throat, and finally erupted through the mouth. It was most often a visual expression of amusement. A good amount of laughter was an indicator of joy, and it was healthy.

From behind one of the pillars in the school library, she saw Artie coach Quinn to keep going on to take the ramp on the south wing of McKinley High. She saw him high-five Quinn as she conquered the steepest ramp in McKinley High. Just like pushing a baby out, he said, to which Quinn responded playfully that she did not want him to make her laugh.

_But why wouldn't she?_

She had never heard or seen Quinn laugh so openly, but she decided that it was going at the speed of sound to be one of her favorite sounds in the world. The sound of Quinn's laughter was typically alto, throaty and a little rough at the edge. It has a certain lilt, and the repertoire of the pitch ranged from deep chuckles to almost hysterical screeches—though Rachel admittedly frowned at that. Quinn's laughter was sort of an embodiment of all she knew about laughter.

And more.

"Ready to go?"

She turned to find Finn grinning enthusiastically at her. Sighing, she moved from her spot. Six Flags was waiting, after all.

Too bad it did not provide world's most intriguing laughter.

-.-.-.-

Kurt once told her that he often wondered whether she suffered from Multiple Personalities Disorder. Well, truth be told, she was indeed tempted to check herself in for an appointment with a psychologist. It was not like she realized she was psychologically challenged, no—people were not capable of detecting disorders by themselves, after all. It was just that sometimes she went from one extreme to another in a blink of eye. Take her fiancé, for example. One moment she was eager to marry him; the next second she was texting her maid of honor, rushing her to come the wedding, and throwing the wedding—and her fiancé, to some extent—to the wind as she heard about said maid of honor's accident.

She frowned. _Bad, bad example, Rachel_. She did not want to think about the wedding much less the accident.

_Okay. What about this? What about being a total coward for weeks and suddenly finding the guts to approach the person who's somehow involved in making me a total coward?_

_It's not a disorder; it's called irrationality_, her inner self supplied.

Kurt would have been so proud of her mental banter, really.

"Rachel?"

She abruptly jumped to her feet at the mention of her name in _that_ voice. "Hi, Quinn."

The wheelchair-bound girl eyed her suspiciously, but Rachel had long been used to Quinn's first stage of defense mechanism. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm picking you up. I've called your mother and let her know that as I'm passing your therapy center, I'm more than glad to drive you home in her stead." _Smooth, Rachel._

"How did you—" Then Quinn launched herself to the second stage of her defense mechanism: anger. "Save your nurse game for someone else."

Rachel blinked, totally not expecting Quinn's reaction. "No! It's not like that!" _Why would Quinn think so?_

_Duh_, her mind berated. _Because you're still in your outfit for Six Flags, slow brain._

_Oh_. Her mind had sounded more and more like Santana lately, especially with the name-calling, but at least it always told her the truth no matter how unenthusiastic she was to listen to it. She inhaled deeply. "I don't have any ill intentions, Quinn. I really am here because I want to."

"The ditch day?"

"Done," she said. "Everybody's gone home. Or, in some cases, has proceeded with a Breadsticks date." She did not mention that she had immediately driven to the therapy center right after Finn had dropped her in her house. "How's therapy today?"

Shrugging, Quinn pointed at the duffle bag on her lap. "Like a Cheerio practice with so much more manhandling."

"What?"

Quinn waved dismissively at her, and Rachel realized that she was just joking. That in its entirety was more than enough to bring on another jaw drop. She hoped it was not counted as a symptom of insanity.

_I told you it's called irrationality,_ her mind replied—and was properly ignored.

"Um—do you have to time for a brief visit?" Steering back the conversation to her original plan sounded great for now. "And by brief, I promise it's really going to be brief."

Quinn was considering, she knew. "You owe me coffee for three days."

"Deal," she swiftly agreed. "Shall we?" She pointed to the handles of Quinn's wheelchair, wanting to push Quinn to her car.

"I can do it myself." Quinn started and was ahead of her in no time.

Sighing, Rachel fell into steps beside her. Even though all-smile-Quinn was relatively pleasant to have around, she was more familiar with grumpy-Quinn. At least this one she knew how to handle.

She opened the door for Quinn but waited if Quinn would ask her to help her get on the car. Quinn locked the wheels and grabbed the car's hand bar to hoist herself, and the next second she was sitting neatly in the passenger's seat. Rachel could not help admiring the smoothness of her moves.

"Stop gaping and help me fold the chair," Quinn said.

"Oh! Right. I'm sorry." Then she looked down at the wheelchair. "Um—I believe you need to assist me."

Listening to Quinn's instruction of how to fold her wheelchair was so unlike the previous experiences of arguing and singing with her, and Rachel was struck by how fast Quinn mastered the art of adapting to a new life. Weeks before she had listened to Quinn's letting her know firsthand of her Yale acceptance. Weeks before she had steadfastly been holding on to the idea that a marriage was the only option she had to keep her afloat amidst her NYADA hopes and fears.

And look at where they were and what they were doing today.

Her eyes stung, but she managed to keep her tears at bay.

She drove in a slow speed to the place that had been her intention since she had listened to Quinn's laughter yesterday. Quinn seemed to notice, though, as she told Rachel that while she was still anxious to be in a car—much less being in the driver's seat, her nightmares were less frequent nowadays.

"You have nightmares," she repeated quietly, feeling much worse than the time she started planning this.

"Look," Quinn cut in. "I've accepted it already. I was the one who chose to text you back. You didn't cause my accident, okay? Deal with it."

She opened her mouth to counter that no, she did not believe Quinn had accepted it, but they had arrived to the destination. "We're here." Without waiting for Quinn's instruction, she bolted to get Quinn's wheelchair from the back seat, set it up, and almost offered Quinn a hand to get her settled in the wheelchair.

But she held back.

Quinn looked at the house. "And this is?"

"A friend's," she said. "Well, to be more correctly, he's Finn's friend first before I was introduced to him."

A kind looking middle-aged woman opened the door for them. Rachel hugged the woman briefly, apologizing that she had not been able to visit for quite a long time, before she motioned to Quinn behind her. Tearing up at the gesture, the woman ushered them inside and led them to a room.

"Sean, Rachel's here."

"Send her in, Mom!"

Rachel had long realized that she was not above playing dirty to get what she wanted. She was not proud of it, but she was also not going to deny it. The moment she stepped aside to let Quinn inside, the way Quinn's eyes widened and her face paled made her immediately torn between wanting to make Quinn stay and bring her away from the place.

_Hey, sometimes evil was necessary,_ her inner voice defended.

"Sean, this is Quinn Fabray." She turned to the blonde. "Quinn, meet Sean Fretthold."

-.-.-.-

Thankfully, it was Sean who took the initiative to break the uncomfortable silence. "Looking good, Rachel," he greeted. "And Quinn, isn't it? How're you?" At getting nothing in reply, he continued, still in that easy tone that Rachel wished would unfreeze Quinn. "Bet Rachel didn't tell you."

_If I did, she wouldn't even want to come,_ she answered silently, watching in worry as the walls Quinn had built around herself shot up back just like whenever they had an argument.

"Does Quinn sing, too, Rach?"

"Yes. The best alto we have in the glee club—Belinda Carlisle and all."

"That good, huh?" Sean grinned.

"How?"

Sean went quiet, and Rachel dreaded the moment he answered Quinn's question. If Santana was a hand grenade with a short fuse, Quinn was a landmine: covered beneath so many layers but equivalently lethal. A wrong move would result in nothing but a disaster.

Then, if anything, Sean's flashed a gentle smile, the wisdom in his eyes beyond his age. "Rachel really didn't tell you anything, did she?" He shook his head a little. "Well, let's just say that I went from being tackled to the ground in a football match to thinking that wheeling is much better than being bound to this sorry bed."

"I—" Quinn started, but she closed her mouth again, expression hardening.

Sean laughed. "But I grow fonder of it, actually."

"I'm different!" Quinn snapped. "This is temporary! I'll walk again and I'll—"

"I used to think like that, too," Sean interjected gently. "Just to, you know, torture myself."

"Sean," Rachel tried to intervene. Perhaps this was not a good idea as she had thought it would be.

Sean focused on Quinn once more. "I know you're different. Heck, you won't survive in Rachel's crazy club if you aren't. No hard feeling, though." He laughed again. "I wouldn't want you to be someone you're not, and I'm sure Rachel here doesn't want it either."

"What if I don't know how to be someone I really am?" Quinn whispered, bitterness and self-hatred creeping into her voice.

"That's not for me to answer," Sean said. "Rachel, can you get that album on the desk—no, not that one—the one on your left. Right, that's it. Now, Quinn," he paused, "Finn gave me this picture of your glee club's winning team. What was it? Sectionals? Regionals?"

Rachel opened the album for them, searching for the aforementioned picture. It was a picture of the glee club, the boys clad in red shirt and the girls in black and white dress, in the Sectionals. Quinn was a lead at that time, and they won solidly. And, more importantly, it led to the first time she held Quinn's hand when they were celebrating their victory by singing _Dog Days are Over_.

She watched as a myriad of emotions flashed through Quinn' face, making it more difficult to read than ever.

"And I love the picture, you know. You all looked amazing," Sean said. "I guess that's how people look when they really live their lives."

"I don't—" Quinn could not continue.

"This," Sean looked down to point at the blanket that covered him and to Quinn's wheelchair, "matters, Quinn. It really does. But it doesn't define who you are. So live."

-.-.-.-

Their journey home was even more chilling than the moment they entered Sean's room, air crackling with barely concealed frustration and irritation, the atmosphere strangling. Quinn refused to talk to her at all since they left the Frettholds' house, and Rachel wondered if she once again returned to being the girl who sent Sunshine to a crack house merely because she was too selfish.

"Pull off the road."

"I'm sorry?"

"Pull. Off. The road," Quinn said through gritted teeth. "_Now_."

_Okay, here comes Normandy._

_Shut up,_ she snapped at her Santana-like inner self.

Obediently, she pulled off the road and parked safely, waiting.

Apparently, Quinn did not waste time. "Happy now, Rachel?" she hissed. "Satisfied playing Mother Teresa?"

"Quinn, I—"

"Save it," Quinn dismissed her harshly, slamming herself back onto the seat, wincing when apparently the collision ended up being a bit too hard. "Just—just drive."

She considered doing what Quinn asked her to, but she decided to go against it. "Do you think I'm not happy to see you return to the club? Do you think I'm not happy that you—" _didn't die_, she wanted to say, shuddering, "are back?"

"Then this is all about you," Quinn retorted just as vehemently. "I told you I didn't blame you, and this is what you do? You're just using me to clear your conscience off your guilt!"

"I—what—_no_!" At the sight of Quinn's imminent tears, she fished out the piece of paper that she had long prepared to show Quinn from the pocket of her coat. Wordlessly, she handed it to Quinn, who received and began to read what was printed on it. "You promised me that, and I don't see you're doing it, not with all the bright smile and fake optimism and obvious evasion of certain subjects you put as a front! And if you think I take pleasure in having to introduce you to Sean just to make you see, clearly you underestimate your own worth!"

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

_Breathe, Rachel. Just breathe._

Quinn did not cry and her hand didn't shake, but Rachel's sharp ears picked up the hitch in her breath and the slight tremble in her voice.

"'When I stand before thee at the day's end,' Quinn read, "'thou shalt see my scars—'

"'—and know that I had my wounds and also my healing,' Rachel finished softly. "I don't even read Tagore, you know. You're the one who gave it to me. You forgave me even before I found the courage to apologize. You told me before that you wanted to support me. And you did even when you're subjected to a worse circumstance."

Quinn was quiet.

"I—I don't know if I can help. Or be any kind of help, that is. But I want to." She took a pause. "I get that you don't want my apology, but I want to support you. To see your scars. To know your wounds. To—to know your healing."

Quinn inhaled in a shuddering breath. Slowly, she folded the paper and looked away. None of them seemed courageous enough to break the silence lest it would result in another emotional wreck, but Rachel knew better from the way Quinn's shoulders sag.

"Tagore is a bitch, isn't he?"

She could even _hear_ the smile, really. "But a brave bitch nonetheless."

Quinn reached out to tap the folded paper to Rachel's hand and enveloped Rachel's in her own. "Keep it. It's meant for you, after all."

"So I owe you coffee for three days, right?"

"A week."

"Deal, deal."

This time nobody let go of each other's hand—until she dropped Quinn in her home, that is.

A serious business, indeed.

-.-.-.-

_Next chapter preview:_

_"Quinn, you don't understand. I'm going to have to sing with Santana. _Santana!_ She's going to kill me if I mess up since she's a grenade personified!"_

_"And your fiancé is a time bomb. You'll make a good bomb-defusing specialist, Rachel."_


	4. Alfred Nobel Didn't Make Grenades, No?

**Faithful are the Wounds**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's.

Notes: I've finished writing this like last week, but then my friend whoabeauties (previously vanillagravity) pointed me to the newly released cut scene in the bridesmaid store, so I adjust some things here. Hopefully this chapter still comes out okay, grammar wise and stuff, because next week I'll be back in the US again and won't really have much time at hand for a quick update. Again, your reviews will be much treasured.

P.S.: Should I have a Tumblr account? Should I have not?

-.-.-.-

**Chapter 3**

McKinley High, Rachel believed, should have put a warning sign on all of its lockers. It should read, to say the least, that no one emotionally unstable should come close to any lockers, because, really, McKinley's lockers must have been cursed with a disease of spreading social disputes or invoking quarrels.

Just yesterday she had had an argument with Finn—her _fiancé_, of all people—when she brought up the subject whether he had a plan for himself when they reached New York. He had blown her off rather callously, apparently pressured by his own underperformance and self-doubt. They had not been talking since then, and she had been wishing that Finn had had a greater self-respect. Why couldn't he see in himself what everybody saw in him?

Her ever treacherous inner self with a mind on its own jeered. _Define everybody_, it said.

Alright, fine. The girls in the glee club might have not been too fond of Finn. Santana and Brittany had their own world, Mercedes and Tina barely acknowledged his presence, and he simply was not Sugar's type. Still, the boys were different, right? Puck listened to him, Mike and Sam grouped themselves with him in the football team, and Rory looked up to him. Right?

_Your typical band of brothers_, her inner self said.

Kurt would have said the same, she reasoned.

_So said the person who used to crushing on him before being brothers,_ it replied. _But _you_ know there's a stark difference between being the king of the jungle and the leader of the pack._

Her retort about the unfairness of the statement was somehow interrupted by a loud crash from the nearest row of lockers in front of her. Kurt, walking beside her, instantly grabbed onto her arm in shock and horror.

"Tell me this just doesn't happen _again_," Kurt gasped out.

She looked up to see two figures involved in what seemed to be a not-so civil brawl, and her heart dropped to her stomach. "Oh God."

Finn had pinned Puck to the lockers by an arm against Puck's throat, using the advantage of being taller and bigger than Puck.

"You know what? Who cares if I end up being a loser here? You can have your damn pool cleaning business and leave me alone," Finn barked to Puck's face, which was getting redder and redder as he struggled for air.

"I just—you're not—" Puck tried.

"Finn, stop!" She leaped and tried to separate the two of them, fully aware of watching bystanders who did nothing. God, what did they think they were watching? A circus of freaks? From the corner of her eyes she saw Santana and Brittany approach them. If the Cheerios were coming, it meant that Coach Sylvester was about to as well. This would not be good. "Stop fighting at once!"

Pulling away from Puck roughly, Finn's eyes met hers and she could read the even bigger self-hatred mixed with regret and frustration in his eyes.

"Look, buddy," Puck started, voice still croaky, "if you don't wanna do it, fine. But you deserve a future out of this shitty place, too."

Yet Finn had trailed further from them, pushing himself to part the flock of bystanders.

"Kurt," she whispered.

Giving her a glum look, her best friend nodded. "I'll let you know when he's cooled down."

"Thank you."

"What an entertainment," a sarcastic voice piped up from behind her. Santana's, she recognized. "Hurt locker much in the morning?"

"Stay the hell out of this, Lopez," Puck snapped.

The Latina shrugged. "Well, Puckerman, at least I'm not the one pinned like a rag doll."

"Santana," Rachel started.

"Come on, Brit." Ignoring her, Santana took Brittany's hand in hers and started walking away. "If I have to listen to our resident dwarf defend her good-for-nothing fiancé who goes around attacking people when he actually has only himself to attack, I'll be deaf faster than Beethoven did."

She knew better than responding to Santana's taunt, so she focused back on Puck. "Noah Puckerman, explain yourself to me."

"Rachel, you know I love you, Jewish bond and stuff, but Finn's my buddy first and I ain't gonna sit and watch him drown just because he can't see ahead." Puck raised a hand. "Look, I know he'll end up with you anyway, so I tell him New York isn't the only option he's got. Heck, he hasn't even considered anything else since—" Puck paused, thinking, "since you're applying to that school for drama queens."

"NYADA. And I'm afraid I don't follow, Noah."

"I tell him that whatever his dream is, he needs to make it as big as he is."

She was quiet, then, "It was you who gave him the idea to go to California."

Puck looked at her sadly. "What's good is it for him if all he's gonna do is riding on your tailcoat in New York?"

Hurt locker sign, please.

-.-.-.-

She had decided.

It took two to start, to have and to maintain a relationship, but it did not necessarily take two to end one. So here she was: calling the shot. Finn was worth it. This was the boy who made her high school life bearable, who was willing to share the brunt of peer bullying by agreeing to co-captain a club of cast-outs, who broke up with the prettiest girl to be with school's biggest loser, who had been her anchor amidst the cloudy NYADA prospect and imminent future gloom.

She watched Santana sing _If I Can't Have You_ to the club, but most importantly and especially to Brittany, and easily recognized the look on the Latina's face. Then Santana talked about her dream and how Brittany would always be her one. She had the same look when she looked at Finn, and she talked the same about Finn. There was no doubt about it.

He was the one who was worth it all.

_You've been derailed,_ her inner self said, gentler this time.

She was not. She was going to call Finn and come to the auditorium. She would tell him, and they would be alright. Everything would be alright.

It was her decision.

Then Mercedes talked about letting go of things, and Santana rebuked Mr Schuester for putting his baggage on them—like he had always done, she realized—and Brittany sang a Whitney Houston song she dedicated to two most important people in her life. Santana beamed at Brittany's phrasing—they were so, so in love, she realized as well, but Quinn looked tormented at being said to be able to fly and breathe fire.

That, nonetheless, made Rachel smile a bit. If there were anyone tough and strong enough to be a dragon, it would definitely be Quinn.

Then she saw the dragon plummet to the earth with self-despair and self-deprecation even more crippling than Finn's, and she felt as if the fall dragged her down, too.

-.-.-.-

If there were anything Rachel learned from being a regular slushie target in McKinley, it was that when things went bad, always remember Murphy's Law.

"Hello."

"Q-Quinn, hi." _Why do you stutter, self?_ "I was just wondering if you're up for a discussion." Damn Mr Schuester and his ridiculous assignment. He had believed that pairing Santana with her would make her determination rub off on Santana. _If only he knows what you've just committed yourself to_, her inner self mocked. Fiddling with the edge of her comforter and frowning when she encountered a long silence, Rachel waited for the person at the other side of the call to respond. "I mean, I just want to know what you think of my chosen number for this duet. _So Emotional_ is a great song, and it will accentuate both of our vocal, but I need some input for the dance moves."

"You've performed with San before. Remember when Mr Schue proposed to Ms Pillsbury?" She could even hear the irritation in Quinn's voice, really. "I've lent you a video of my Cheerio performance. Mine are basically pretty similar to San's signature move. Learn from it."

"Quinn, you don't understand. I'm going to have to sing with Santana. _Santana!_ She's going to kill me if I mess up since she's a grenade personified!"

"And your fiancé is a time bomb. You'll make a good bomb-defusing specialist, Rachel."

The way Quinn's tone grew cold almost mimicked the way her stomach iced over.

Quinn _knew_.

"How did you know?" Her voice was reduced to a whisper.

"How I know doesn't matter. I guess it's too much for you to tell me in person, huh?" A curt laugh. "Look, I have an appointment."

"Quinn, you don't understand—"

"That's the second time you tell me I don't understand," Quinn interrupted. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't understand anything." A pause. "But even if I do, it's not like it's going to make any difference. After all, you never listen."

"Quinn—"

"I've gotta go. Bye."

The call ended with a click that resonated louder that it was supposed to. She could only stare at the phone in her hand, digesting what Quinn had said and wondering what had made Quinn sound so upset.

Then again, wasn't Quinn always angry when it came to Rachel's decision about her future?

_Except that one time when she decided to come to your wedding_, her inner self said, and it immediately created a churning sensation in her stomach. She told herself to stop thinking about the wedding because it led to thinking about Quinn's accident, and thinking about Quinn's accident led to recalling the numerous scars on Quinn's back—she put them there—and the wheelchair and the despair she witnessed when she brought Quinn to meet Sean and—

Rachel ran faster than she thought she could to the toilet and threw up, emptying her stomach.

-.-.-.-

As silly as it might sound, Rachel wondered if she had been a kind of real life star in _Twilight Zone_.

Quinn was singing... with Joe.

To begin with, it was understandable when it was Artie. Whether she liked it or not, Artie was part of the support system Quinn needed—and she failed to give. But this? What was with that unabashed smile Quinn threw at Joe? That come-hither glance? That kind or staring she used to give to Finn and Sam? And she did not really pick this song herself, did she? And, for Barbra's sake, wouldn't anyone care enough to call an end to this inelegance? Even Santana barely concealed her disgust as she looked at the pair performing at the moment!

However, she did not really have a chance to voice her thought as it was next her turn to perform. Santana and she nailed the song and, thanks to Quinn's video, she did not mess up.

Well, let's hope that her luck prevailed still.

"Do you know you can learn a lot about people by looking at their lockers?"

If it were in another life, the way Santana jumped at her voice might have brought a laugh. But not in this life. In this life, she was Rachel Berry and the person standing before her was Santana Lopez, ever an infamous badass and current head bitch in charge at school. And they were not friends.

That, however, was going to change today.

"Stalker much?" Santana's lips curled in a sneer, just like when she watched Quinn and Joe sing in the choir room.

"I think it's apt if we take a different direction from now on," she said. "I mean, we're always at each other's throat even when we can work together and produce amazing numbers."

Santana leaned closer, intimidating. "Not that I'm proud of it, but the reason why we don't get along is because I remind you so much of who you really are."

That was not what she had predicted. "I'm sorry?"

"Look at you." She pointed at Rachel, snickering. "And me." She pointed at herself. "We both won't hesitate to kill our best friend to get to the top."

That was not true, she wanted to argue, but then she thought of Sunshine and Kurt and Mercedes and_ Quinn_ and it made her shut up.

"I—" she began, "I know that we don't really get along well. But we've come so far, right? And there's only so little time left before we graduate. Forty two days, Santana. Afterward, we might not be able to see each other again." She paused. "So let's be friends."

Santana's eyebrows rose, and Rachel wondered if it was a trait shared by all Cheerios.

"Fine, fine. I'll do my best to restrain my urge to end you with a ball of socks down your throat."

She almost clapped at that. Seeing _the_ Santana Lopez relent was not something people see in daily basis, after all.

"But," Santana promptly continued, "you keep your excessive, unnecessary public display of affection with Mr Infinity to the confine of your love hut."

"Santana—"

"Just take it as an advice from a... friend."

Now she did laugh at how Santana tried not to flinch at using the term, so she announced her intention of hugging Santana. The hug lasted only briefly, and she gave Santana a picture of her to be put in the Latina's locker. As Santana pinned the picture next to a picture of Brittany with pompoms, she noticed something.

"You have no picture of Quinn at all."

"Yeah?" Santana turned around. "Do _you_ put even one single picture of your rival in your locker?"

"But she's your best friend."

"You didn't answer my question, short stack." At Rachel's frown, Santana said, "Being civil doesn't have anything to do with the names I call you with. Now answer my question."

She hesitated. "...I guess I don't."

"See?"

"But I'm not an adversary to a good change." Then the question that she was dying to ask was suddenly spilled. "Do you not think she looked more than a singing partner to Joe yesterday?"

"Now here's another advice." Santana pointed her forefinger to Rachel's face. "Mind your own business."

"But he's only a sophomore!"

"Who's been going to some of her therapy sessions."

"He what?"

Santana gave her a half-hearted glare. "Again, not your business."

"Santana, Quinn once told me she's not going to bring any load from the past to her future, and as far as I can interpret it, it means nothing—_nothing_—from Lima will tie her down in New Haven."

"Pot and kettle, no?"

Whoever created this grenade surely never bothered to time its countdown to explosion, really.

At her sudden speechlessness, Santana only shrugged. "If Joe makes her happy, I don't see any point of denying her this chance." She fixed Rachel a strangely understanding stare. "And all these complaints of yours about her not listening to you? Who are you trying to kid? Why should she when you never bother to listen to her as well?"

"But I do value her opinion," she countered, weakly.

"Oh, I'm sure you did a _great_ job in that department, because the last time you did in that bridal store, it sounded like a dismissal to me. And hola! Only when she's T-boned by a truck, you finally came around." Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Listen, _Rachel_. I'm not gonna stop being a bitch just because now I have your picture in my locker. And so is Quinn."

_La nina got a good point there_, her inner self acknowledged.

Still stunned, she could only stand there when Santana brushed past her with a light pat on her shoulder. In the progression of her so-called friendships, it seemed that when she finally gained a step forward with Santana, she had to endure a massive backward leap with Quinn. She tried to console herself that at least she was trying, but she knew her trying fell short, judging by how easily tension reappeared between them.

Perhaps that was why she went through a friendship with Kurt so easily. Compared to Quinn—and Santana to a lesser degree, Kurt was uncomplicated and frank. He did not hide. Nor did he find the need to. Even when he tried for his father's sake to be someone he was not during his short stint with the football team, he was still himself.

_Or perhaps that's why you keep trying with Quinn_, her inner self piped up. _Because she's complicated and enigmatic. Because she has these walls around herself to keep people out and herself safe. Because she's handed this image to maintain and expectation to meet. But despite it all, you've seen her at her most delicate. You've seen her sans the walls and the masks. You've seen the real her, and it's a big accomplishment you can't let go._

But Santana might have seen the real Quinn, too, she countered.

_It's only logical, since she's Quinn's friend. But what about you? You said it yourself: you only have a so-called friendship. You're only, well, a kind of friend. You're no good at handling a complicated, enigmatic, wall-full, image-maintaining, and expectation-meeting business. You're good at simple things like, say, following your dream—though that's not so true anymore—and being with Finn. That's why you're so desperate to keep this bond you have with her—because she is everything Finn is not._

She blinked. Did she just compare Quinn to Finn?

Her inner self snickered. _You know,_ _a bomb-defusing specialist may be a good alternative career. Go for it, self._

-.-.-.-

Reference:

i. Puck and Finn locker scene was from _Saturday Night Glee-ver_. I just add more animosity to the scene.

ii. The idea of Rachel might have got a little help from Quinn, or Santana, about her dance moves in _So Emotional_ comes from a talk I had with whoabeauties. She mentioned that there were some Tumblr posts that compared Rachel's hip sway to Quinn's in her Cheerios days. Scotoma, I believe, but no, I'm not complaining.

iii. When Quinn sings _Never Can Say Goodbye_, we can see she has a picture of Finn and Rachel in her locker, though Rachel's face is covered with a blue tape. Odd as it is, it's there.

-.-.-.-

_Next chapter preview:_

"_Earth to Streisand! How dare you ignore a pregnant woman! Now listen, young lady. I'm offering you a chance to withdraw your nowhere near brilliant plan of an anti-prom quietly. I don't care if you have to roll on the floor swallowing your pride, but if a pregnant Q could man up to risk my wrath so that your oblivious club could have a page in the yearbook in junior year, you could, too. So now get out of my office and sweep the dirt you've created in the form of that preposterous anti-prom!"_


End file.
